Transparent
by PrairieLily
Summary: John sees right through Sherlock, but still, he has his own apologies to make. Immediately post TFP, imminent Sherlolly and a strong brother connection between John and Sherlock. Edited to add a second chapter featuring Molly and Mycroft. No copyright infringement is intended. Rated T only for two frank-speaking f-bombs.
1. Chapter 1

_With all of the stories here about the aftermath of The Final Problem, including my own, I thought for a change I'd like to explore what may have transpired between John and Sherlock, after Sherrinford and Musgrave Hall, but before the point where we authors took over with Sherlock's facing the music with Molly to explain himself after "THAT" scene. This is a oneshot, taking place at John and Mary's flat, which in my story he has fortunately not given up just yet at the time of 221B being leveled by the patience grenade at the beginning of The Final Problem. Pending Sherlolly, but this is basically what I would personally label a "chosen brothers" fic where John and Sherlock have a heart to heart that takes in the events of Season/Series 4._

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sat silently across from each other at the small table in the kitchen at John and Mary's flat, John flipping through the morning newspaper, Sherlock browsing the local news on his phone. Every now and then, the silence was broken by the sound of one of them sipping from their mug of tea, or a rustle of newsprint being turned.

John peered over the page at Sherlock, his brows furrowed. Sherlock appeared at first glance to be fully engrossed in the screen of his mobile, but John knew him better than that. Subtleties in his expression, the way he shuffled his feet under the table, in spite of supposedly being fully immersed in what he was reading. Little things about his body language made it quite clear to John that his best friend had a lot more on his mind than would be obvious to the casual observer

John, however, was no casual observer of his best friend.

"You know, Sherlock, you really need to go talk to her."

Sherlock paused from his scrolling, his body stock still aside from the raising of his eyebrows as he turned his eyes up to look at John. He sighed heavily, setting the mobile down next to the empty, crumb filled plate his breakfast had been eaten off of.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know Mycroft has already been there, her flat has been swept and cleared. I know he's told her absolutely everything. I know I need to speak to her. I just…" he trailed off, bringing his hands to his dark curls.

"You don't know quite what to say to her. I know, mate. She really needs to hear your side of it from YOU though. Mycroft can't possibly convey what's in your heart. Hell, Mycroft barely has a heart of his own."

"More than we think, I suspect," Sherlock smiled to himself with brief irony as he rose from his chair, picking up the empty plate. "More tea?" he asked. John nodded. Sherlock brought the pot over, refilling both their cups generously.

"I WILL go see her. Today. I promise. I just need to sort my thoughts."

John raised a knowing eyebrow while he stirred his tea.

"You mean, you need to figure out how to forgive yourself." John folded his paper carefully, and set it down, smoothing it with his hand while he considered what he was going to say next. Sometimes honesty, in all its brutality, was the only way to approach this man he had come to love as a brother.

"Sherlock, in all the years I've known you, up until a few days ago there has really been only one emotion you have been capable of expressing in any way, and that is self-loathing. I think it explains a lot, actually."

"You and I need to talk as well, don't we?" Sherlock asked, his bruised and scratched hands wrapping and unwrapping themselves around his tea mug.

"We do, yes. And," he said, pausing and taking a deep breath, "I have a lot to apologize for. A lot." John looked at him steadily as Sherlock raised an eyebrow, quizzically.

"YOU, apologize? John, I don't really think that…"

John cut him off, raising a hand. "Therein lies my point, exactly, Sherlock. Please hear me out."

Sherlock had no idea where John was going with this, but knowing his friend well, knew better than to argue.

"You know," John began, "I didn't really understand until Eurus… until what she did to us at Sherrinford. Then when she darted us and took us to Musgrave Hall… I didn't understand WHY you carried every speck of guilt with such stubborn grace… as if it were simply a part of you that you could no more strip away than you could strip away your own skin."

Sherlock shook his head, as if trying to justify the way he had been in the past. "I have done terrible, unforgivable things. You are a widower and a single parent because of my actions." John looked at his friend, then cast his eyes downwards. He fiddled with the handle of his cup for a few moments.

"You faked your own death, for which I had a hell of a hard time forgiving you. But that," he said, raising his head and with a pointed look, jabbed a finger towards Sherlock for emphasis, "opened the door for Mary. And that in turn opened the door for Rosie. And in the meantime, she made me realize how much you mean to me. In a sense, I have my family because of you."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, and appeared to hold his breath, trying to contain some burst of emotion. He only succeeded somewhat in controlling the small explosion of anger he still harboured towards himself.

"You LOST MARY because of ME," he snapped. "Because I couldn't keep my big, arrogant, smartass mouth SHUT." Sherlock turned his face upwards, fighting back tears of guilt and grief. "She is dead because of me," he said, his voice softening with remorse, his low baritone nearly reaching an inaudible whisper. "Rosie has no mother because of me." Sherlock, paced around briefly, running his hand through his hair.

John seemed to think a few moments, gathering what he wanted to say. Finally, thinking a reminder was instead in order, he said, "You forget, Mary is only gone because she chose to save you. That bullet was not meant for her, it was meant for you. You might have forced the firing of it, but you sure as hell didn't force her to jump in front of it. She did that of her own choice. HER OWN." He paused, taking a good pull from his mug, and stood up, walking around the table to look up at Sherlock.

"This is precisely what I mean, Sherlock. Self-loathing. You can't forgive yourself, can you? You never could forgive yourself. You blame yourself, you have for what, 35 years, for not being a clever enough CHILD to solve your sister's riddle. For not finding and saving your best friend. You hate yourself for it. Those were not your actions Sherlock. Those were someone else's."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged as the truth of what John was saying to him finally began to sink in.

"I was so angry with you when Mary died. Yes I blamed you for a while. I did nothing to help you to see that it wasn't actually your fault, not entirely. I," he said, swallowing hard and glancing away, feeling his own tears imminent, "I forced you to take an extreme path in order to save me, because Mary thought… no she KNEW that if she were gone, I would need saving." John cast his face downwards, finding himself suddenly unable to look Sherlock in the eyes. "I sent you off your tits on smack and brought you to the brink of death because that's how far gone I really was. And then in my anger and blame I laid you out beaten and bleeding on a cold morgue floor and left you at the mercy of a fucking serial killer. That was on ME, not you. And what did you do in return?"

He raised his head, revealing a glistening trail on his cheek where a stray tear had slid down, and smiled at the man he had come to think of as his brother. He reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. "You saved me from Eurus. You couldn't save Victor decades ago, you couldn't solve her twisted little puzzle back then. But you did this time to save ME. Nothing can bring Victor back, but you brought ME back. So why can't you forgive yourself? Why can't you let the past look after itself?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, softly. "I honestly don't know, John. I suppose I'm not accustomed just yet to letting my emotions lead me." He reached down and picked up his cup. Turning, he strode into the living room, settling himself down into the closest easy chair.

John seemed to think for a moment, then grabbed his own cup. He strolled into his living room and paused a moment at the wedding photo of him and Mary. He looked over at the one of him and Sherlock on that day, when Sherlock had stood up for him at his best man. It was a candid shot, the consulting detective tugging at his tie and looking uncomfortable, but smiling nonetheless. And then the one Mary had placed centre of them both – one of Sherlock holding Rosie at her christening, Molly on one side of him and Mrs. Hudson on the other. The newly appointed god-father looked awkward, but at the same time oddly at home and at ease cradling baby Rosie in his arms. In retrospect, John wondered, was it the occasion, or the camera, that caused such awkwardness?

"You know Sherlock, you are the brother I never suspected I even wanted. But here you are, whether we like it or not. Do you recall what you said to Mycroft only a few days ago? He wanted me to leave the room when he was going to fess up about Eurus because he said it was about family. You told him that was WHY I was to stay."

John took a breath, smiling at the photo of Sherlock holding Rosie at her christening. "You are a surprisingly wonderful second father to my little girl. Mary is to thank for all of this."

Sherlock stared into his cup. For a moment he was lost in thought, taken back to happier memories. Even, he realized, the look of innocence and trust on Rosie's face the first time he had changed her nappy. She didn't care, all she knew was she was loved and cared for, and Sherlock's face was one she knew to be a gentle and kind one. She didn't notice or comprehend the expression of distaste and inexperience on his face, or the skepticism behind the soft words he forced out of his throat, trying to convince himself it wasn't so bad. Rosie was pure innocence, untainted by the world and its sins, its cynicism. Sherlock was familiar, and constant, and his deep voice was soft and comforting to her, even the resonant calming warmth of his voice murmuring words she didn't understand while he tried to talk himself through his first go at the whole wretched ordeal. She wasn't old enough yet to know to identify it as love, but she loved him. And, if she had a warm dry nappy because of him, well she loved him even more.

No matter what Sherlock's state of mind was, picking Rosie up out of her crib settled him.

"You need to talk to Molly," John said, breaking Sherlock's mental distraction. "If I can forgive you now that I understand what was REALLY going on, what makes you think that she would be such an impossible sell?"

"She loves me, John. That fact was used against her in the worst possible way. I can forgive myself for some things, but this… this is the hard sell." Sherlock slid himself down into the chair, as if he were trying to hide himself and his shame in the thick comfortable padding.

"Really," John said, chuckling softly and without humour. "Is it a hard sell because what you were forced to do was horrible, or because the guilt you feel for gutting her like that is because you really DO love her. Sherlock, remember, I was there. I heard you say it too. I know real love and that was it. I think you just need to get used to the idea. You were forced to confront a lot of hidden, stashed away emotions, Sherlock. Your true feelings for Molly are just some of them, but they are some of the most important ones, mark my words."

Sherlock looked over at John, reflection and contemplation passing over his face. "There really isn't anything you can't see about me, is there? Am I really that transparent?" He braced his feet against the floor and pushed himself upright again. His gaze turned back to John, steady and curious.

"Only to those of us who care about you. We can see right through you William Sherlock Scott Holmes." John laughed, rising from the chair. "For some daft bloody reason, Mary loved us both, and she thought we were both worth saving. She knew somehow that it would take each of us to save the other, and it would take nothing short of a massive fucking effort on both our parts. She put value on BOTH of us… we MUST not waste what she has given us. It is precious currency."

"Indeed… we mustn't waste it," Sherlock said, softly, thinking back to a conversation at 221B not that long ago.

John smiled to himself, remembering that conversation as well. "Molly's flat. GO, you daft bugger. Go talk to her." He winced suddenly. "Two cups of tea, bloody hell I need to use the loo. Now when I get back, I expect to see you gone and when I text Molly in about 15 minutes, I expect for her to tell me that you are there, with her, explaining yourself."

"You're really going to do that, aren't you? Text her to check up on me." Sherlock couldn't help the start of a smile quivering on the corner of his mouth. He set his cup on the stand next to the chair and braced his hands on the arms, pushing his lean frame into a standing position.

John walked over to the closet and grabbed Sherlock's coat and scarf. He shoved them towards the taller man, winking. "Damned right I am. Aren't I that transparent to you yet?"

Sherlock laughed out loud, reaching out for the offered garments and shaking his head.

"I can see right through you, Dr. John Watson."


	2. Chapter 2

_So, I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened… but it isn't. A oneshot is turning into… a twoshot? At the end of the first chapter, Sherlock leaves to go talk to Molly, after a frank and brutally honest conversation with John. In this chapter, which seemed to be needing to be written, we see a prologue sorts, between Molly and Mycroft, as he takes it upon himself to do some damage control ahead of his little brother's visit on John's prompting. Then, we see an epilogue, with Sherlock going to see Molly at John's prompting from the first chapter. I'm pretty sure there's nowhere else for me to go with this one now though, so thank you to everyone who has favourited and decided to follow a story that I THOUGHT was already complete… ;) Also a note, just as I haven't with other TFP stories, I don't go into detail on the events at Sherrinford and Musgrave Hall. That is not my story, it belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss as inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

* * *

Molly Hooper sat on her couch, legs curled up underneath her. Her phone had just toned with a text message from John Watson.

 _"Sherlock is on his way. Will text again in about 15 to confirm his arrival. JW"_

She hugged her pillow while she thought back to Mycroft's visit the day before.

 _"Dr. Hooper," Mycroft said, standing in her doorway. "We need to talk. Much has happened in the past 48 hours and my brother is in no position or state of mind to explain himself. So," he said, smiling in his formal manner, "if you are willing to listen, I would like to explain."_

 _Molly looked at him with something across between annoyance, heartbroken dread, and desperation to have that bizarre phone call explained to her._

 _"Very well then," she said simply, standing aside to allow him inside._

 _"Well… actually Dr. Hooper… Molly… it would be best if we were to talk elsewhere. Your flat needs to be thoroughly inspected and all surveillance equipment removed."_

 _Molly stared up at Mycroft in horror. "Surveillance… WHAT? Mycroft what the hell are you talking about?" No sooner had she said the words when a team of Mycroft's choosing descended on her home, filing through her open door with cases in hand and looking like they were on a very specific mission._

 _Mycroft smiled awkwardly as he glanced towards the group that had just taken over her flat. "All will be explained, I assure you. But first I must ask, do you trust me and trust that everything I am about to tell you is the absolute truth?"_

 _"Yes," Molly said finally. "Yes, I trust you. And… do you know about that phone call?"_

 _Mycroft looked uncomfortable, even embarrassed, for the first time since his sudden arrival. "Yes, I do. I was there when it was placed. Please, Molly… walk with me?" He crooked his elbow, offering it to Molly. She hesitated only a moment, before glancing back to the open door of her flat, now overrun by strangers looking for things that made her decidedly fearful and uneasy. Finally, she hooked her hand around his offered elbow and allowed him to guide her on their walk._

 _Throughout their stroll, broken only by the occasional rest on a bench or picnic table, and even once at a sidewalk café for a cup of tea, Mycroft began to tell her everything. The explosion at 221B; the existence of Eurus and her various aliases while she had been at large; his, Sherlock's, and John's arrival at Sherrinford. He told her of the various trials they had endured, the deaths that had resulted along the way. Finally, reaching the part he knew she needed the most to know about, he raised his hand up to his elbow, taking Molly's hand and gripping it with all of the comfort a man like Mycroft could muster._

 _"I know it's difficult to hear that my brother's phone call had witnesses. But you must know that it was obvious even to myself that he meant what he said when he told you he loved you. I think, perhaps, the threat of your imminent demise forced him to acknowledge his emotions, specifically the ones pertaining to you." Mycroft squeezed her hand again. Molly stopped walking, bringing Mycroft to a halt as well. She turned slightly to face him, still gripping his arm._

 _Mycroft smiled at her, sensing that she was having trouble finding words. "I know it's ironic, given how I myself am. Sherlock has never been one to act on emotion, but believe it or not, he was a very emotional child." He squeezed her hand again, prompting her to continue walking with him. Molly hadn't even noticed yet that they had begun to turn back towards her flat._

 _"In the course of our ordeal, Sherlock began to experience an emotional re-awakening. I will explain better later on as to why that was even necessary, but you must understand that Sherlock has suppressed his emotions for decades, and that has not been without reason, or consequences."_

 _"I have always believed emotion to be a hindrance and a weakness. And that works for me personally… But in Sherlock's case… I believe it will be a strength. Sherlock has always drawn strength from his relationships. With John. With Mary, with baby Rosamund. Mrs. Hudson. Even DI Lestrade. And with you, Molly. I believe you will be his greatest strength, should you consent to something more than friendship with him. If, that is," he said hopefully, "you can bring yourself to forgive him for being an utter arse."_

 _Molly, overwhelmed with what she had been told, couldn't control the burst of giggle. "He has definitely been that. Oh, I'm sorry Mycroft… this is all so much to take in. I have no idea how to even begin to process all of this." She looked up at him, the normally steely gaze of Mycroft Holmes holding a tenderness that she had honestly never noticed before. Her cathartic giggle had already petered out, and as she gazed up into his eyes, she began to feel herself breaking down. As her face began to dissolve into a release of uncontrollable sobs, Mycroft released her hand and wrapped his arms around her, embracing her tightly, letting the stormy torrent of tears soak into the front of his vest._

 _He had, too recently, witnessed a similar emotional release with his little brother, when Sherlock had, in a rage that Mycroft never suspected his brother was even capable of, destroyed a wood coffin with his bare hands, the splinters flying in every direction and the fabric lining shredding while Sherlock screamed in agonized fury. When the primal screaming had stopped and the coffin lay in shattered, splintered ruins, Sherlock had sat himself down on the floor. Backed up against the wall, his legs drawn up and his wrists resting limply on his knees, he watched as John Watson walked up to his little brother, and picked up the pistol that had been cast aside in the explosion of rage._

 _Mycroft saw John speak briefly to Sherlock, then reach down and offer a hand up. Sherlock took the offered hand, and allowed John to pull him to his feet. He had straightened and buttoned his jacket, taken the pistol back from John's offering hand, and strode out of the room with him. Nothing more needed observing, Mycroft had thought. Sherlock would be okay - for now._

 _"There is much more to the story yet, Molly," Mycroft said softly. But if you wish, we can finish in the comfort of your own home. I assure you it has been cleared and secured by my team."_

 _Molly wondered how Mycroft could possibly know that. His mobile hadn't made a single sound, nor did she hear it vibrate. She supposed it was yet another Holmes mystery that wasn't meant to be solved by anyone – merely accepted as being just who they were._

 _"Yes, thank you," she said. "That would be best. Would you like a cup of tea, or something?" she offered._

 _"Or something may be in order, I think," he said, smiling lightly. "You have heard most of this ordeal, and the part that pertains specifically to you, but I'm afraid that the worst my dear Molly, is yet to come. Please be sure to pour yourself a little of that something as well."_

 _Molly felt dread at those words, but didn't doubt Mycroft in the least. As they entered her flat, he released her hand, feeling she was finally safe enough to be liberated from his protection. Thinking about it later, he conceded to himself that there was no logical reason for her to not be safe, and he couldn't quite explain it, but he just NEEDED to hold on to her – perhaps for his own reassurance._

 _When he had finished, a few "or somethings" later, buffered by a light meal ordered in, Molly thanked Mycroft for his candid honesty. As he said goodbye and departed her flat, she suddenly felt an overwhelming need to talk to Sherlock. She wanted to hold him and kiss him and tell him that there was nothing to be forgiven for. But, the hour was late, and she hoped Sherlock would be fast asleep in the spare bed at John and Mary's flat. She would wait until morning, and then text John. He would know exactly what to say to Sherlock. She had waited this long, she had weathered the storm. Now, calm waters and gentle, warm breezes awaited, she need only have patience and faith for one more night._

* * *

Sherlock barely had a chance to ring the bell at the door of Molly flat a second time before the door flew open, Molly's hands were on his face pulling it down towards her, and he was drawn into the most unexpected, wonderful, mind blowing, cathartic kiss he had ever experienced.

By the time his brain had realized what was happening, his instincts had left it in the dust. Bringing his hands up, one landing between her shoulder blades and the other sliding its way upwards through her long hair and cupping the back of her head, he pulled her close and returned Molly's kiss with all of the emotion he'd kept under wraps for far too long. When they had both finally come up for air, Sherlock managed to say, his baritone voice husky from the moment, "Molly… we need to talk." He smiled down at her, trying mightily to resist the urge to try that kiss again, just to make sure. "But I suspect from your greeting that you know far more than I realized. What the HELL did Mycroft tell you anyway?"

Molly smiled up at him, her eyes shining. Sherlock was immediately concerned when tears welled up and began to cascade down her cheeks. What ELSE had he done to her?

"Everything," Molly simply said. "Mycroft told me everything." She glanced downwards and cleared her throat to compose herself, then took his hand. "Come now, I have tea ready. We can have biscuits with it, or brunch instead if you prefer. Have you eaten much yet today?"

Sherlock paused a moment, thinking back to the blueberry scone he had consumed along with the two cups of tea at John's flat. "Not much, no. I confess I haven't had much appetite the last few days."

"Well then, how about a good old fashioned English breakfast? We're going to have a rather long afternoon I suspect, best to face it with full bellies, don't you think?"

"Wise as well as beautiful," Sherlock said lightly, realizing his appetite was beginning to return full force. "But please let me help you in the kitchen. I'm not the most skilled chef but I can cook up a platter full of bangers that would blow your mind."

Molly looked away, hoping her expression and her blush wouldn't be too obvious. "You are in charge of the bangers, then," before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

"Seriously Molly, WHAT did my brother say to you?!" Sherlock implored, finding himself grinning like a fool. Molly was right, it was going to be a long afternoon, but clearly it wasn't going to be as agonizing as he had feared.

"Well, as I said, he told me everything. Mycroft has a far bigger heart than any of us suspect. He sees things we don't realize he sees, because he tries to put forth this ridiculously stale façade of logic and disdain for emotion. He told me, quite pointedly, that you meant what you said to me. And," she said, quietly, "he told me that you would only be made stronger by letting your feelings for me lead you now and then."

Sherlock caught his breath and found, to his amazement, tears of relief and joy springing to the corners of his eyes.

"Mycroft was right," he said simply.


End file.
